


Scene Of The Addiction

by intotheruins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 18:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: This is Sherlock's perspective of a scene from MemoryCrow's "Mycroft and Associate" series and won't make any sense unless you read that first.At three in the morning Sherlock tripped over a doorway in his mind palace and fell head-first into a deduction he wasn't sure he wanted to make.





	Scene Of The Addiction

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mycroft and Associate Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023509) by [MemoryCrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow). 



> I've been reading MemoryCrow's Mycroft/Moriarty series and had dirty, dirty thoughts :D.

At three in the morning Sherlock tripped over a doorway in his mind palace and fell head-first into a deduction he wasn't sure he wanted to make.

The seeds were planted hours ago, during a visit from Mycroft. A discussion of Moriarty—should have been a simple thing, but then again, was anything ever simple for a Holmes. Sherlock was distracted, mind delightedly gnawing at the ever more appetizing mystery that was Jim Moriarty, yet he still caught it—the odd tilt to the left corner of Mycroft's mouth, the dart of his eyes as he spoke of the criminal, the distant, raised-eyebrow appearance of cool innocence when Sherlock pressed for more. Nothing overt, all quite subtle really, to anyone who was not Sherlock Holmes.

The seeds grew, releasing creeping vines to grasp him by the ankles and pull him, unwilling, into the thick of a forest of the obvious.

His brother was sleeping with his enemy.

For a moment he lay there in the grasp of vines slimy with things he did not want to know... but then he took hold of them and found that they were smooth, not slimy. Even soft, inviting. His eyes snapped open and he sucked in a breath hard enough to lift his back from the couch cushions.

“Interesting,” he breathed, and vaulted off the couch to scramble madly over the coffee table.

He was dressed and throwing on his coat in minutes, pausing only to listen at the foot of the stairs—John was still dead to the world. Good. He loved John deeply, and as much as he was able to share with him, he would not have the man he thought of as a brother knowing of the darkest parts of him.

It was a little after four in the morning when he reached Mycroft's home and found all of his defenses already broken. His heart rate leaped to thunder in his throat—adrenaline crashed through his body in a hot rush. He shivered, grinning in the face of his addiction, and slipped, silent, through the dark house, ears open for anything.

He should have expected the moan, but it still struck him as a shock, a sharp burst inside his chest. A series of gasps and broken vowels tumbled after it—Sherlock followed them to the bedroom door, carelessly left half open, light spilling out into the hall as though in invitation. Come, come closer, take in a show.

The head of the bed faced away from the door. All Sherlock could see was a tangle of hairy legs, and his brother's dimpled backside thrusting madly into the body beneath him. Now the expanse of a back as he arched, thrusting deep and holding. Moriarty mewled and begged and oh, how could this be the cold criminal Sherlock loved to play with? This was no human, too base even for that—no, this was a beast, a creature, mad with needs of the flesh and the spirit, if such a thing did exist.

Mycroft held himself rigid, arms shaking, until Moriarty gasped, “ _Daddy!_ ” and the race of hips began again, and Sherlock had to shove his fingers in his mouth to muffle a gasp of his own. 

Heat crawled through his limbs, lashed at his muscles. He sucked at his fingers, wanted to moan at the invasion, the idea of being used. He let himself whisper Moriarty's word in his mind and nearly fell to his knees, though he dared not let himself admit who he might be thinking of as he said it.

The vines knew—they coiled around him, all sense of slime forgotten in the moment; he should have recognized the signs of a new addiction. He should have woken John, or stayed in his mind palace, or—

Mycroft bit out Moriarty's first name, a single syllable forced through a tight throat and clenched teeth. Sherlock's cock swelled, hot and nearly painful where it pressed against the unrelenting tightness of his trousers. It had been years since he felt physical desire, too many years; the presence of it now was overwhelming. He sealed his lips around his fingers and sucked all the harder—he reached between his legs, and as Moriarty cried out and Mycroft gasped, Sherlock fell to his knees, whimpering.

Loose and warm with pleasure, Sherlock barely had the presence of mind to crawl away from the door before the two inside could notice him. The urge to allow himself to be caught was alarmingly strong.

_That was your brother and your enemy._ The vines had thorns now, sharp tips sinking inside to make him bleed, yet he thought  _daddy_ and let himself imagine, just for a second, his brother's haughty face, Moriarty's manic grin at the depravity on display before him. 

He came a second time in the shadows just outside the house, and finally slipped off home to clean himself up before the daylight could expose him.

 


End file.
